“We’re crashers,” Bee said enthusiastically. “But we wanted to stay undercover.”
“What do you think?” Holly asked, as they peeked in the dining room.
Francine didn’t say anything at first. Holly watched her grandmother’s face light up as she absorbed the decorations, the flowers, the candlelight, the beautiful people. “Breathtaking,” she said, finally. She turned to Holly, placing a soft hand on each side of her face. “Thank God for young hearts and big ideas.”
On her way out, Francine stopped to admire the last bit of sun outside the French doors. “Your grandfather would be so pleased. We always wanted to fill this old house with family. And now you have.”
Francine squeezed her hand. “Now let me congratulate our prize chef before I go.”
They walked into the kitchen just as Oliver was walking out the back door, the screen banging hard behind him. There, holding what looked like a small rat, was their prize chef, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Greta
Oh, my dear girl,” Francine said, hurrying around the kitchen island to get to Greta. She halted, peering down at the baby opossum. “Is that what I think it is?”
Greta did not know what Franny thought it was, but it must not have bothered her too much because she swept Greta into her arms, even though she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. In Franny’s hug, Greta felt her bones give. That’s when the tears fell faster.
It took a moment of hiccup-crying for her to be able to speak. By then Linus, Francine, Bee, and Holly were all crowded around her. Josephine, who’d stayed late to help with cleanup, kept to the edge of their circle as she swept, clucking her tongue sympathetically in rhythm with the broom. Wisely, Paul stayed out of the way in the wash area, but came out twice. First he set a cup of hot chamomile in front of her. The next time he brought her a cookie. Paul was a good egg.
“What’s wrong and how can we help?” Francine wanted to know. Greta gave them theReader’s Digestversion, sticking to the basics, because it felt too personal to share the rest.
Their responses were immediate and outraged.
“He’s doing what?”
“She can’t possibly.”
“Her poor parents.”
“And Harry.”
“Harold.”
“We have to stop them.”
“Can we?”
Then, after a collective pause for breath, “Should we?”
Buoyed by the support, Greta decided it was time. It was time to tell them the whole story. She started at the beginning.
Earlier that evening, Sissy Sutton had let herself in the kitchen. At first Greta didn’t notice. It was the climax before dinner service, and food was moving fast: off the stove, out of the oven, onto platters.
Just as she was pulling a bubbling skillet of herb-roasted chicken off the range, someone in a white dress appeared at her elbow, like a ghost. “Oh God!” Greta cried, nearly hitting Sissy with the scorching skillet. She swung it back to the stove, almost spilling the contents in the process.
“Sorry,” Sissy said. But she didn’t look sorry and she didn’t move.
Both pissed Greta off to no end. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I need your help,” Sissy said blankly.
Greta set the skillet down and wiped her brow with the edge of her apron. “We’re full on in here, if you haven’t noticed.”
Sissy handed her an envelope. Usually clients waited until after the dinner to tip the staff, and it was Holly who handled this sort of thing.
“I’ve been trying to reach him all night,” Sissy said. “He’s not answering calls or texts.”
This was not a tip.
